The Game
by masksarehot
Summary: Jin x Hwoarang. Set right after Hwoarang's Tekken 4 ending. Hwoarang and Jin have been living together for three months, and Jin's mysterious behaviour is intriguing Hwoarang, reminding him of a side of himself he had left behind long ago...and tempting him to start messing with Jin's mind. Yaoi. Rated M for sex themes.


NOTE: this was posted in January 2004 under my old name, and was deleted when I purged my old account. While I don't think it accurately reflects what I'm capable of anymore, I'm posting some of my old stuff anyway. This is set after Hwoarang's Tekken 4 ending (and is obviously non-canon.)

Original A/N: The name is clichéed, the plot is clichéed, and don't get me started on how out-of-character everyone is!

**The Game**

I've been living with Kazama for about three months now. Ironic, isn't it? If you had asked, a year ago, where I would be right now, I probably would have said, "military," or "training to kick Kazama's ass." But here I am, grocery shopping with Kazama, helping to clean his toilets, arguing over whose turn it is to do dishes.

How did I get here? Well, it started after that fucking fight with the Korean army's finest thugs after the Fourth Iron Fist tournament:

.*.*.*.

"You'll need to leave Japan," said Kazama, as we slowed and left the ally. It is easy to blend into a busy crowd in Tokyo, and we walked amid the businesspeople and the families of tourists. I staggered slightly.

"Can we stop?" I panted, still out of breath from our flight. Kazama slowed and we stood by the window of a store. I put my hands on my knees and gasped in as much air as my lungs would allow.

"They know you're here," continued Kazama.

"No shit." I turned my head to look behind us. Lots of business suits, but no army gear, yet. Good.

"Come to Brisbane," offered Kazama.

I looked up at him, surprised for two reasons. First, this conversation was probably the first time he had ever bothered to use full sentences as he spoke to me. Second, did he really think we could live together without killing each other?

He smiled hopefully, almost sadly, and I realized something. Kazama was lonely. He wanted me to be his roommate because he was so fucking lonely that he would invite a nemesis to come live with him. I laughed.

"You're a sad son of a bitch, Kazama," I said, looking around a bit nervously as I rustled for a cigarette.

He watched me for a moment. I ignored him as I sought my lighter.

"We have to keep moving," he said quietly; he turned his back and began to walk away.

I lit my cigarette, then shoved the lighter in the pocket of my gi as I ran to catch up.

"Okay, fine," I muttered. He slowed his pace, but didn't look at me.

"Flight leaves tomorrow," he informed me.

So, we found a cheap hotel for the night, then flew to Brisbane on standby in the morning. I settled into the couch in his waterfront apartment. And now, three months later, we still haven't killed each other.

.*.*.*.

And here we are, eating dinner.

Kazama watches me for a moment before he says, causally,

"I'm going out tonight."

"Okay. Where?" I guide a mouthful of noodles to my mouth.

Kazama looks away and shrugs. "Out." I cast him an odd look;

he stands and walks away.

Why does he always do this? Sometimes, I feel as if he's more of a cheating lover than a room-mate - his lies and evasion of questions get on my nerves. As I chew, I make up my mind to follow him.

And I do.

It is difficult to be inconspicuous with a noisy motorcycle. I just bought the thing last month, and it already needs a serious muffler tune-up. So, I trail his taxi a few blocks behind to mask the noise; I am careful not to rev the motor.

The taxi stops in front of a nightclub just outside of the Central Business District. That's it? A nightclub is his big secret? I circle the block and return to park. The bouncer looks at me strangely as I pay the cover charge and step over the thresh-hold.

Down a dark flight of stairs. The techno's bass jars my rib-cage. Smoke rises to meet my nostrils. I step onto the dance floor and let my eyes adjust. And I suddenly see why Kazama has been so mysterious. The bar is filled with gyrating, thrusting couples.

All of them are men.

This is surprising. How could I live with the man for three months, and never suspect...?

Now that I think about it, though, he's never had a girl in the apartment. Or a man, for that matter. He's disappeared overnight on many occasions, but I always figured he was shacked up with some Japanese tourist or something.

I step into the fray and look around for him. There he is, in the corner, his face buried in the chest of a tall, long-haired Australian man. I strut over to Kazama and tap him on the shoulder. He looks up, groggy. I smile, and his eyes widen.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" he stutters.

His dance partner eyes me suspiciously. I cock my head, indicating that he should leave; the man nods and walks away. Kazama stands with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, showing more discomfort on his face than I have ever seen before. Come to think of it, I've never seen any emotion there except heroic turmoil.

"Go home," he says.

I shrug. "Why? This is a public club, isn't it?"

His eyes dart around the room as he decides how to explain himself.

"This is a gay bar." He hisses the last two words as if conveying a deep secret. I snicker.

"You think I don't know that?" I motion around at all the men dancing, attached at the groin.

He shrugs and looks down.

"Look, just-"

"I didn't know you were gay," I interrupt with a sneer. His jaw tenses, and I know I am right: he thinks I'm homophobic. He's in for a surprise. This is going to be fun.

"Leave," mutters Kazama.

"No; I think I'll stay." I leave him with a dazzling smile and a wink as I head to the bar.

"Give me a gin," I say to the bartender. As the bartender fixes his drink, a man catches my eye from across the bar. His teeth are very straight; his blond hair is longish, and flops into his eyes. His skin is tanned and he's muscled, probably about Kazama's size. Must be a bodybuilder. He smiles at me and motions to the bartender, who leans over, then returns to me.

"Paid for by an admirer," he says as he sets the drink in front of me. The man at the end of the bar winks. That was easy.

I grab my drink and move to sit next to him. He smells strongly of alcohol and mint. He smiles at me.

"Hello," he says in a deep voice, leaning toward me on his elbow.

"Hi," I reply. I hold out my hand. "Hwoarang."

"Hwoarang." He looks into my eyes and smiles as he shakes my hand.

"Derek."

"Derek." I down the rest of my drink. "Want to dance, Derek?"

"Sure." He smiles and stands.

.*.*.*.

I've been dancing with Derek for about an hour now. We're hitting it off pretty well. He's had a rock-hard erection for the past forty-five minutes, and he's starting to get a desperate glint in his eye. Good. I could use a good fuck.

What surprises me is how often Kazama pretends not to look at us. It is more than shock. Is it possible that he's jealous? It's an intriguing prospect, and one I intend to use to my full advantage.

Just to bother him, because I enjoy doing so. Nothing more.

Derek reaches into his pocket and pulls out a package of cigarettes, nodding to the exit that opens to the back parking lot. I nod in agreement. As we leave, Kazama pretends to be engrossed in conversation with a bespectacled fellow.

We are barely through the door when Derek pushes me into the wall. His stubble scratches my lips and his tongue reaches into the depths of my mouth. The violence of it makes me tremble. What has started as a little prank to bother Kazama has tapped into the part of me I'd left behind two years ago.

I missed this.

He pulls back to run a hand across my jaw.

"Here?" he asks hoarsely.

I look around at the couples clustered around the cement, then motion to a shadowed area of the wall.

"A little more private," I suggest.

He nods and groans as he grabs my hand and pulls me there. Once we are concealed by shadow, he slips his hand into his pocket and pulls out a strip of condoms and a tiny bottle of lubricant. I am impressed at his foresight.

"It pays to be prepared," he says nonchalantly. As he undoes his button-fly jeans and rolls the condom down his cock, I fiddle with my belt and pull my pants down to my knees. He grabs my erection in a tight fist.

"Shall I turn around?" I say, a bit impatient to get to the fucking.

"No," he replies. He grabs my knees and pushes me against the wall. The crotch of my pants form a tight band between our chests; he holds me with one hand under my ass as the other searches for my entrance. He slips a heavily lubricated finger inside me.

"You're so tight," he breaths, gently slipping in another finger.

I wince slightly. I haven't slept with a man since Baek died. Only women. Too many women.

He sees me wince and slows down, gently nibbling on my neck. This is nice. This is more like I remember. I close my eyes and arch into the man, my fingers raking the bare chest between the open flaps of his shirt.

Then, he removes his finger and slips in his erect cock. A low moan escapes from my lips as he reaches the hilt. This hurts. I can tell he's trying to be gentle, but he's incredibly aroused, and his thrusts are getting rougher.

I let my eyes slipped open as I press my cheek to his ear. My gaze wanders over his shoulder.

There is Kazama.

He stands not twenty feet away, staring. His mouth is open, and his eyebrows are creased. I catch his eyes with mine as my lover continues to pound into me.

It's possible that he has never had sex with another man, and he's horrified by the prospect. Maybe that's why he looks so shocked.

Or maybe he's jealous.

I smirk at Kazama and claw at my lover's back.

"Harder," I moan, nibbling gently at his earlobe as I watch Kazama. The Japanese man is encouraged to a seat on the pavement by the boy with glasses. They light up cigarettes. Kazama pretends not to notice me; he turns his head, unintentionally angling his muscled neck towards me. The occasional disconcerted glance lets me know that my staring is making him uncomfortable.

I force my hand between Derek and I, taking my erection into my hand. The tip is slippery and I coat my hand with its liquid, then reach lower the clutch at the shaft. My hand's thrusts match Derek's hips, and within seconds, I am ready to explode.

"Harder," I say, more urgently, my free hand ripping at his shirt. He obliges and my muscles clench around him as I spasm, creamy liquid spilling over my hand and between our torsos. I intend to keep my eyes half open so I can see Kazama's reaction to my cries, but the force of the orgasm forces them shut.

I close my eyes and pant, my forehead buried in Derek's shoulder. He slows briefly, then presses into me with such brute force that he cums, too. The final explosion's quietness is such a drastic shift from his earlier roughness that I am almost unsure that it has happened.

He slowly pulls out and lets my legs down; they tingle as blood returns to them. He takes off the condom and ties it off, letting it drop onto the pavement. I grab my pants and pull out a packet of tissues. He gratefully accepts one to wipe off his abdomen; I do the same, then shakily pull on the rest of my clothes.

As I do up my fly, I scan the lot for Kazama. He's gone, of course. I expected no less from him. He's probably masturbating in the toilets, trying to convince himself that he's not thinking about me.

Derek smiles.

"Thanks," he says.

"No problem," I reply.

"See you some other time," he adds.

"Probably," I say, though we both know we're lying.

He leaves. I lean against the wall and pull out a package of cigarettes. Its smoke calms my racing pulse, and I hold each draught for a few seconds, letting the chemicals relax my body.

Kazama isn't in the club when I return.

I go to the bathroom; not there. He must have left, then.

I leave, too.

I hesitate at my bike. I have sobered up a lot - sex will do that to you - but it's such a nice night, anyway. Fuck it. I'll walk.

I light a second cigarette as I walk, more out of habit than anything else. One day, I really do need to quit. Baek used to nag me about that.

"Cigarettes lower your endurance and your sperm count," he'd tease.

"So?" I'd reply, blowing the smoke in his face.

"So," he'd cough, waving his hand to dissipate the smoke, "how are you going to impregnate young girls and then run from their angry fathers if you have no sperm and shitty endurance?"

I'd laugh, in spite of myself, and then he'd grab the cigarette from my mouth and snub it out in the ashtray beside the bed.

"Promise me you'll quit."

"Yeah, one day. I promise."

Then we'd laugh, because we both knew how much he liked the taste of cigarette smoke.

I hesitate at an intersection, then decide to cut through the small park on the right. It's a little shorter, and a lot quieter than the main road. Brisbane isn't an enormous city, but it's nice to get away from people sometimes.

I stop to watch a couple make out on a park bench. They can't be more than teenagers. The girl has her head tilted, and the pale skin of her neck almost glows in the moonlight. The boy nibbles at her chest. I imagine, from her movements, that he is delicately toying with the nipples, his hand roving lower to slip beneath her frilly panties. I smile, then put my hands in my pockets and keep walking. Ah, to be young again, when the thrill of reaching second base was enough to make you cream your pants.

The trees fade into buildings, and the gravel path gives way to cement. Back to the city. I cross the street and make my way along Edward Street to the waterfront. The apartment is only a block down. I stop and pull the butt from my mouth, smearing it into the pavement, as my eyes wander to the tenth floor. The apartment light is on. Kazama is home.

I'm suddenly not sure how to react when I see him. He saw me fucking orgasm, for Christ's sakes. My liquor-induced smugness fades as I realize that if either of us should feel uncomfortable, it should be me.

I stare for a few more minutes. Then, I mutter, "Fuck it," and walk to the entrance.

Kazama is on the couch when I arrive, his eyes closed and his hand down the front of his pants. He was, apparently, watching a loud Japanese porn VCD, and fell asleep. I walk briskly to the television and turn down the volume, pausing for a moment to admire the burly men and schoolgirls in action. Then, I turn and walk to Kazama.

"Wake up," I say.

He doesn't stir. I reach out to shake his shoulder. He moans and squints at me through one eye.

"Whazhefuck?" he slurs.

"Get out of my bed," I say calmly.

His eyes slip closed and his breaths deepen.

"Kazama!" I snap, shaking him harder. He buries his head under the pillow.

I consider dragging him off of the couch and letting him sleep on the floor, but I don't have the energy after my activities earlier tonight. So, I say, "Fuck it," and go to Kazama's bedroom, closing the door behind me.

The room is white and clean, from the linoleum floor to the walls to even the bedspread. Two framed photos sit on the white night-table. I undo the belt of my pants and pull them off, sitting on the bed to look at the photos. One is of his mother. She is standing in the surf of an ocean, holding her sandals, a large smile on her face. The next is of him, Ling Xiaoyu, and that stupid fighting panda bear. I look at it for a moment; I didn't know he actually gave a fuck about the schoolgirl.

I flop onto the bed, folding my arms behind my head as I stare at the ceiling. Maybe I should shower. If Kazama does come to me in the night, I don't want to smell like what's-his-face at the bar.

My eyes slipped closed and I take a deep breath of Kazama's scent from the air around me.

.*.*.*.

He doesn't come to me in the night.

I awake at ten in the morning, a bit disappointed. My mouth is dry and my head thumps. I push myself to a sitting position and glare at the bright floor. My knees creak as I lumber to the shower.

As I pad to the kitchen a short while later, I hear the sound of Kazama chopping vegetables. He must have been out shopping, then. He has this habit of preparing all his vegetables for cooking before he puts them in the refrigerator. Doesn't even take a moment to relax after he gets back.

I enter the kitchen, grab a mushroom, and pop it in my mouth. He ignores me. Usually this steams him right off.

"Aw, c'mon, Kazama," I say, slumping onto a stool. My arms fold behind my head, and I plop my bare feet onto the counter, right beside the eggplant. Kazama moves the eggplant away from me with his knife, then continues chopping.

"I'm not going to tell Ling you're bi, if that's what you're worried about."  
Kazama slams the knife onto the counter so hard that some of the mushrooms leap off the counter. He drops his head, his hands braced against the counter.

"Tsk," I say, rescuing a mushroom from the floor.

"Hwoarang," he says quietly, "get the hell out of my kitchen."  
"Our kitchen, buddy," I reply, popping another mushroom into my mouth. It has a hair on it from the floor; I spit it out. It rolls along the floor and rests against Kazama's bare foot. I flinch.

Kazama stops chopping and starts to laugh. Not happy laughter. He throws his head back, and tears stream down his cheeks. I recoil, horrified.

After a moment, he turns to face me, simultaneously squishing the mushroom with the ball of his foot. He leers.

"Uh..." I mutter nervously, backing my stool across the linoleum.

"You always have to push my buttons, don't you?" he says, his words hissing through the smile. I blink. This probably isn't the time to point out the double-entendre. He takes another step toward me. I slide off the stool and take a step backwards.

"You take pleasure in lashing out at me, don't you?"

What's he getting at? I take another step away from him; my back slams into the wall. His hand lashes out and presses against the wall, just beside my head. His head presses forward until his lips almost touch my ear.

"It's like flirting for you, isn't it?"

"No...no, I mean..." My eyes slip closed; his breath is hot on my ear. My voice fades into a moan.

"You think I'll get so angry that I'll lash out in a bout of hot, angry sex," he hisses. I think that sobbing noise is coming from my mouth; god, I hope it isn't.

He pulls back, and a blast of cool air hits my ear. My eyes snap open.

"There are a few problems with your plan," he says, smirking. He begins to chop the mushrooms again. I stare.

"Firstly," he continues, not looking at me, "you have absolutely no proof that I am anything but straight."

"What?" I stand up to my full height; my legs are a bit wobbly. "You were at a fucking gay bar, Kazama."

"Out of the two of us, who actually kissed a man? Who had sex with a man? For all you know, I could have been there to meet up with a friend who happens to be gay."

"You were dancing with-"

"That doesn't prove a thing," he interrupted. "Especially compared to what you did. Especially compared to what I saw."

Shit. This isn't the way it's supposed to happen...

"Second, I saw you watching me." He turns back to the vegetables. I gawk as he brashly chops the stem off of a carrot. "That gave away your whole plan. I hate to tell you this, but there is no way your little crush is going to pan out."

Shit...

"You will never tell anyone where I was, lest you want them to know about your exploits," he says, mincing the carrot. "Furthermore, you will never follow me again. Ever. If I want your company, I will ask for it."

Shit, shit, shit!

"Is this clear?" He lops the stem off an eggplant.

"Yes," I mutter, mortified I shove my hands in my pockets and begin leave the room. I am just through the doorway when he calls to me.

"Hwoarang," he says.

I stop and turn around. He still has that damned smirk on his face.

"Humility is a good look for you, honey," he says, his voice lisping. He lets his hand go limp at the wrist, and laughs, then shakes his head and goes back to chopping the eggplant.

"Yeah...great..." I say, and back out of the room. "Glad you haven't gone fucking mental, you freak." I flop down onto the couch and flip on the television, but I can't focus on anything, so I end up staring blankly at it and zoning back in once in awhile for a few seconds.

Kazama finishes chopping the vegetables. I hear the sound of plastic containers being sealed, and then the fridge. Then footsteps. Soon, the shower starts up. He's singing now. He's doing that to bother me, and it's working: I'm picturing him naked, and it's driving me crazy. I swear and grab a cushion to throw at the television. It hits the power button, and now I can't hear anything but the shower.

"Damn you, Kazama," I yell. This is all his fault. Two days ago, I wouldn't be thinking any of this.

How is it that a man who seems so innocent and naïve can best me at my own game?

I flip the television back on and turn on the porn VCD he was watching the night before. So many schoolgirls. Two hours of them, all giggling, all in pigtails. Maybe he does fancy Ling, then.

Two of the schoolgirls have just pulled out a two-headed dildo when I become aware that the shower has stopped. I look around, and jump.

Kazama is standing right behind me. His hands grip the top of the couch; he is wearing nothing but a towel. His hair is still dripping. He pretends not to notice me, but watches the television intently. I whip my head around and face forward.

"There's room on the couch, you know," I say shortly.

Nothing.

This is more than a little unnerving. Disorienting. In our...relationship, whatever it is (it's not friendship, and it's certainly not love), I've always been the one with the power: I piss him off when I choose, and I'm friendly when I choose. He has to be with me on my own terms, except when he chooses to go off on his own. It's always been that way with friends and lovers for me. My terms only. Now the power balance is reversed.

Kazama has now knelt behind me; his folded arms sit right behind my head. I can feel his breath on my ear.

"This is a good part," he whispers.

"How many times have you seen this, you pervert?" I say coolly, trying to get some power back.

"Now, really, Hwoarang," he says. "Out of the two of us, who's proven to be the bigger pervert?"

A brilliant move on his part. He has never used my name to address me - even when we speak in Japanese, he only refers to me as "you." I am stunned. Melting, even.

It's disgusting.

I steel myself and stare at the schoolgirls. _Don't think about him, Hwoarang. Watch the girls._

Still, getting aroused in his presence isn't much better than getting aroused by him. I self-consciously grab one of the pillows on the couch and pull it over my lap, turning around to tell him to bugger off.

He's not paying any attention to me: his gaze is fixed on the screen, and he has this look that I swear I've seen before...

It's the look he gave me at the club when I was fucking what's-his-face. I'm sure of it. Maybe that look really is his "I want you" look - I can't imagine him being jealous of the schoolgirls, nor disgusted by them. It has to be a look of longing.

Even though I'm sure I'm imagining things, the prospect is exciting. Damn him to hell. This is all his fault.

"I said, there's room on the couch," I say again, trying to sound a bit cross. "If you're going to watch, don't sit behind me. It's creeping me out."

He gives me a knowing look. "You don't know when to stop, do you, you flirt?" he says scornfully. It is so out of character for him to tease that I am floundering. Still, he walks around the couch and sits down, tucking the towel in carefully around himself. After another moment, he grabs one of the pillows, too. I snicker to myself.

"You know," I say, "there's something homoerotic about two men watching porn together."

"Homoerotic is not the same as gay," snaps Kazama, and I begin to wonder if he's really straight after all. If not, maybe newly out of the closet. Either way, with his uneasiness, I think the power has finally shifted back to me.

My hand drops out toward him, and rests just by his towel-wrapped thigh. I lightly flick one finger out and run it ever so gently across the terrycloth.

I can practically see sweat-drops rolling down his face.

I inch closer and slip my hand under the flap of the towel, running it across the second layer on his upper thigh. His eyes are slipping closed, but he still won't look at me.

"You should be careful who you provoke," I say coolly. "A guy could get angry and try to fight back."

Now I'm pretty sure that he's never done anything with a guy beyond dancing and kissing, because his cheeks are flushing and he's staring fixedly at the screen with half-slit eyes, refusing to glance at me.

I move to kneel on the ground before him. Now there really are sweat-drops forming on his temples. He looks down at me without moving his head, then looks back at the television; I can hear his breath catch in his throat.

My hands grasp the pillow, and I try to move it to the side. He looks as if he's about to stop me, but he relaxes and continues to stare at the television.

The towel is tenting formidably between his legs. I unfold one side of it, then the other, exposing him completely. His fingers dig into the fabric of the couch as I tighten my hands around him and bring my mouth down to the tip. I slowly take all of him into my mouth, then work my way back to the tip, swirling my tongue as I do. I look up; he is watching the television intently, his mouth open slightly. Only his kneading hands tell me that he is aware of what I am doing.

As I work, I look around for some sort of lotion. There is unscented hand lotion sitting by the couch - it will have to do. I reach out with one hand and pull it to me, then release him for a moment to coat one of my fingers. My left hand grabs him and I lick the head of his cock as my right hand trails down his scrotum to his entrance. I gently slip the moistened finger just inside the entrance; his body jerks slightly, but he doesn't complain or make any move to stop me. I push a little farther, slowly - I'm not sure if he's used to this or not - and he throbs in my mouth. My left hand starts to move up and down along his length, adjusting speed to figure out what keeps him the hardest, as my finger probes delicately inside him.

I have hit the right spot; he is fully turgid in my mouth.

He has slid down the couch so that he bears down upon my right hand. His body is tense and arching slightly; one eye is open and still fixed on the television. Then his muscles all jerk and he lets out one tiny gasp - that's it - as he empties into my mouth.

Ladies and gentlemen: Kazama Jin, reserved and impossible to read even during orgasm.

I pull back completely once it has stopped and, realizing there is nowhere to spit the damned stuff, I swallow, gagging a little at the texture. It really has been too long. I gauge Kazama, trying to tell if he enjoyed himself or if he was now going to kill me. His head rests against the back of the couch, and he stares down the end of his nose at me.

"Well?" I say. He looks away.

"Great. So now you're back to giving one-word answers and avoiding me." I stand and throw my hands in the air. "God, Kazama, you're fucking impossible."

He reaches for the remote and switches the television off. My ears ring in the absence of girly screams. He stands and walks to his bedroom, and closes the door.

I stare at it for a second before marching to it and knocking.

He opens it, now sporting a pair of boxers and a hoodie. He starts to pull on a pair of pants.

"You won," he snaps. "Alright?" The door is about to swing shut; I jam my foot into it.

"You think that was a fucking game?" I say, forgetting for a moment that really had been, at first. "Christ, Kazama, I don't suck dick to play games!"

"No, you fuck strangers to play games," hisses Kazama.

"You really were jealous!" I say, surprised.

"You disgust me," he snaps, and the door slams against my foot. I withdraw it and walk back to the couch. I sit down on it, sighing.

.*.*.*.

So, you're probably wondering what happens next.

Well, I'm wondering the same thing. Kazama's stormed out, without a word, as usual. I'll be surprised if he comes home tonight.

I guess I'll start looking for an apartment tomorrow.

Really, it's too bad. Could have worked out so much better. Maybe if I had approached it differently. Then again, I wasn't looking to win his heart. I was looking to win his cock, and I got that. Got exactly what I wanted.

Life is pretty fucking ironic sometimes, isn't it?

.*.*.*.

~END~


End file.
